Measure of a Man: Motors, Ponies, Mufflers and More

The men in my life are disparate, so when trying to size them up I employ their relationships with cars as a means to help me understand them best.

My own father has ever been very outdoorsy, which fit him perfectly. He worked as a biologist, but is retired now. Picking up a fossil here; chipping a rock there, that’s my daddy. He never managed to acquire any warmth for machinery. He was brought up by his parents to act like a gentleman, but motors and gears seemed to expose the worst in him. I have early memories of him cussing the Industrial Age as he was bent over an engine.

Dad would switch tires on our VW camper vans when necessary, but would never have been one to fawn over chrome grill work or aftermarket center caps. He might pour some H2O in the radiator or dab Rust-oleum on oxidized spots on our van, but scrubbing headlights with toothbrushes or guiding Q-Tips around dashboard knobs were not matters that occurred in our garage.

On the other hand, my father-in-law is a complete car man through & through. I wouldn’t be stunned if he knew every make, model, and year of every car that ever graced the Pennsylvania turnpike. He is happy to spend a Saturday afternoon checking out cars at an Antique Car Club Rally or scrubbing the whitewalls on his car.

Growing up in rustic northern Pennsylvania, he speedily graduated from pacifier to pliers and pitchfork. Farm boys learned the ABCs of mechanics along with animal farming at an early age. The affinity with motors and wheels and all the associated gadgets stuck, although fondness for animals did not. He left the farm to go to college and never looked back.

My hubby is a professor like his pop and his father-in-law, but that is where the resemblance ends. He does not camp, collect rocks or meticulously clean his vehicles. His idea of a good Saturday is sipping java at Starbucks, marking tests and tripping along the bunny trails that are Facebook.

He puts gas in the car, but would be more likely to employ his American Racing center caps for paper weights instead of using them to floss his ride. No offense to hard working wheel center caps. He makes it a point to vacuum-clean his car twice a year and doesn’t mind driving around with “Wash me!” on the back window for a year or more.

My daughter’s beau is a juiced up version of my father-in-law. (I think they would bond quickly if sent together on an errand to a car parts store.) The Boyfriend got a performance exhaust kit for Christmas and is pleased now that his car’s tailpipe rumbles deeply, letting everyone know he has arrived. “I can hear him coming a mile away,” my daughter smiles, evidently in the throes of young passion.

There’s not question that the relationships that men have with their cars can be complicated. On occasion, the car can be a reflection of a man’s maleness, while other men act as if their vehicles were an enemy that are a nuisance to be subdued or at the very least, tolerated.

Some name their cars, and others blaspheme them. Some handle their vehicles with TLC, while others cop bragging rights because their car or truck is beaten up or has the most mileage. Car stories are exchanged over beers, like war tales used to be told around a campfire.

This is the reason the auto industry sells billions of dollars worth of window tint, aftermarket center caps, dash accoutrements, chrome, seat covers, wheels, car alarms, backup sensors, hoods, tailpipes, and decals.

Whether the wheels in the drive are fodder for cussing or cooing, I believe there’s some inevitable mechanical mojo going on – Kind of like to “If you build it, he will come.”